MASKS AND FACES

[Dramatis Personæ]

[ACT I.]

[SCENE I.—The Green Room of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.]

[SCENE II.—A spacious and elegant Apartment in the House of Mr. Vane.]

[ACT II.]

[A large roughly furnished Garret.]

[Transcriber’s Note]

MASKS AND FACES;

OR,

BEFORE AND BEHIND THE CURTAIN.

A Comedy

IN TWO ACTS.

BY

TOM TAYLOR AND CHARLES READE.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

1854

[The Authors reserve the right of Translating this work.]

PRINTED BY HARRISON AND SONS,

LONDON GAZETTE OFFICE, ST. MARTIN’S LANE.

“MASKS AND FACES” was produced by Mr. Webster in November, 1852; and played 103 nights at the Haymarket and Adelphi Theatres.

MASKS AND FACES,
OR,
BEFORE AND BEHIND THE CURTAIN.

[ACT I.]

[SCENE I.]—The Green Room of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. A Fire-place C., with a Looking-glass over it, on which a call is wafered. Curtain rises on Mr. Quin and Mrs. Clive, seated each side of Fire-place.

CLIVE. Who dines with Mr. Vane to-day besides ourselves?

QUIN. His inamorata, Mrs. Woffington, of this theatre.

CLIVE. Of course. But who else?

QUIN. Sir Charles Pomander. The critics, Snarl and Soaper, are invited, I believe.

CLIVE. Then I shall eat no dinner.

QUIN. Pooh! There is to be a haunch that will counterpoise in one hour a century of censure. Let them talk! the mouth will revenge the ears of Falstaff;—besides, Snarl is the only ill-natured one—Soaper praises people, don’t he?

CLIVE. Don’t be silly, Quin! Soaper’s praise is only a pin for his brother executioner to hang abuse on: by this means Snarl, who could not invent even ill-nature, is never at a loss. Snarl is his own weight in wormwood; but Soaper is—hush!—hold your tongue.

[Enter Snarl and Soaper L.D. Quin and Clive rise.]

(Clive, with engaging sweetness). Ah! Mr. Snarl! Mr. Soaper! we were talking of you.

SNARL. I am sorry for that, madam.

QUIN. We hear you dine with us at Mr. Vane’s.

SOAP. We have been invited, and are here to accept. I was told Mr. Vane was here.

QUIN. No; but he is on the stage.

SNARL. Come, then, Soaper.

[They move towards door.

SOAP. (aside). Snarl!

SNARL. Yes. (With a look of secret intelligence).

SOAP. (crosses slowly to Clive). My dear Mrs. Clive, there was I going away without telling you how charmed I was with your Flippanta; all that sweetness and womanly grace, with which you invested that character, was——

SNARL. Misplaced. Flippanta is a vixen, or she is nothing at all.

SOAP. Your Sir John Brute, sir, was a fine performance: you never forgot the gentleman even in your cups.

SNARL. Which, as Sir John Brute is the exact opposite of a gentleman, he ought to have forgotten.

[Exit L.

SOAP. But you must excuse me now; I will resume your praise at dinner-time.

[Exit, with bows, L.

CLIVE (walks in a rage). We are the most unfortunate of all artists. Nobody regards our feelings. (Quin shakes his head.)

[Enter Call-Boy L.]

CALL-BOY. Mr. Quin and Mrs. Clive!

[Exit Call-Boy L.

QUIN. I shall cut my part in this play.

CLIVE (yawns). Cut it as deep as you like, there will be enough left; and so I shall tell the author if he is there.

[Exeunt Quin and Clive L.

[Enter Mr. Vane and Sir Charles Pomander L.]

POM. All this eloquence might be compressed into one word—you love Mrs. Margaret Woffington.

VANE. I glory in it.

POM. Why not, if it amuses you? We all love an actress once in our lives, and none of us twice.

VANE. You are the slave of a word, Sir Charles Pomander. Would you confound black and white because both are colours? Actress! Can you not see that she is a being like her fellows in nothing but a name? Her voice is truth, told by music: theirs are jingling instruments of falsehood.

POM. No—they are all instruments; but hers is more skilfully tuned and played upon.

VANE. She is a fountain of true feeling.

POM. No—a pipe that conveys it, without spilling or retaining a drop.

VANE. She has a heart alive to every emotion.

POM. And influenced by none.

VANE. She is a divinity to worship.

POM. And a woman to fight shy of. No—no—we all know Peg Woffington; she is a decent actress on the boards, and a great actress off them. But I will tell you how to add a novel charm to her. Make her blush—ask her for the list of your predecessors.

VANE (with a mortified air). Sir Charles Pomander! But you yourself profess to admire her.

POM. And so I do, hugely. Notwithstanding the charms of the mysterious Hebe I told you of, whose antediluvian coach I extricated from the Slough of Despond, near Barnet, on my way to town yesterday, I gave La Woffington a proof of my devotion only two hours ago.

VANE. How?

POM. By offering her three hundred a-year—house—coach—pin-money—my heart——and the et ceteras.

VANE. You? But she has refused.

POM. My dear Arcadian, I am here to receive her answer. (Vane crosses to L. H.) You had better wait for it before making your avowal.

VANE. That avowal is made already; but I will wait, if but to see what a lesson the calumniated actress can read to the fine gentleman.

[Exit L. H.

POM. The lesson will be set by me—Woffington will learn it immediately. It is so simple, only three words, £. s. d.

[Exit L. H.

TRIPLET (speaking outside). Mr. Rich not in the theatre? Well, my engagements will allow of my waiting for a few minutes. (Enter Triplet and Call-Boy L. Triplet has a picture wrapped in baize and without a frame.) And if you will just let me know when Mr. Rich arrives (winks—touches his pocket). Heaven forgive me for raising groundless expectations!

CALL-BOY. What name, sir?

TRIP. Mr. Triplet.

CALL-BOY. Triplet! There is something left for you in the hall, sir.

[Exit Call-Boy L.

TRIP. I knew it, I sent him three tragedies. They are accepted; and he has left me a note in the hall, to fix the reading—at last. I felt it must come, soon or late; and it has come—late. Master of three arts, painting, writing, and acting, by each of which men grow fat, how was it possible I should go on perpetually starving. But that is all over now. My tragedies will be acted, the town will have an intellectual treat, and my wife and children will stab my heart no more with their hungry looks.

[Enter Call-Boy with parcel.]

CALL-BOY. Here is the parcel for you, sir.

[Exit Call-Boy L.

TRIP. (weighs it in his hand). Why, how is this? Oh, I see; he returns them for some trifling alterations. Well, if they are judicious, I shall certainly adopt them, for (opening the parcel) managers are practical men. My tragedies!—Eh? here are but two! one is accepted!—no! they are all here (sighs). Well, (spitefully) it is a thousand pounds out of Mr. Rich’s pocket, poor man! I pity him; and my hungry mouths at home! Heaven knows where I am to find bread for them to-morrow! Everything that will raise a shilling I have sold or pawned. Even my poor picture here, the portrait of Mrs. Woffington from memory—I tried to sell that this morning at every dealer’s in Long Acre—and not one would make me an offer.

[Enter Woffington L. reciting from a part.]

WOFF. “Now by the joys

Which my soul still has uncontroll’d pursued,

I would not turn aside from my least pleasure.

Though all thy force were armed to bar my way.”

TRIP. (aside, R.). Mrs. Woffington, the great original of my picture!

WOFF. (L.) “But like the birds, great nature’s happy commoners

Rifle the sweets”—I beg your pardon, sir!

TRIP. Nay, madam, pray continue; happy the hearer and still happier the author of verses so spoken.

WOFF. Yes, if you could persuade the authors how much they owe us, and how hard it is to find good music for indifferent words. Are you an author, sir?

TRIP. In a small way, madam; I have here three tragedies.

WOFF. (looking down at them with comical horror). Fifteen acts, mercy on us!

TRIP. Which if I could submit to Mrs. Woffington’s judgment——

WOFF. (recoiling). I am no judge of such things, sir.

TRIP. No more is the manager of this theatre.

WOFF. What! has he accepted them?

TRIP. No! madam! he has had them six months and returned them without a word.

WOFF. Patience, my good sir, patience! authors of tragedies should learn that virtue of their audiences. Do you know I called on Mr. Rich fifteen times before I could see him?

TRIP. You, madam, impossible!

WOFF. Oh, it was some years ago—and he has had to pay a hundred pounds for each of those little visits—let me see,—fifteen times—you must write twelve more tragedies—sixty acts—and then he will read one, and give you his judgment at last, and when you have got it—it won’t be worth a farthing.

(turns up reading her part.)

TRIP. (aside). One word from this laughing lady, and all my plays would be read—but I dare not ask her—she is up in the world, I am down. She is great—I am nobody—besides they say she is all brains and no heart (crosses to L. Moves sorrowfully towards L. D., taking his picture).

WOFF. He looks like a fifth act of a domestic tragedy. Stop, surely I know that doleful face—Sir!

TRIP. Madam!

WOFF. (beckons). We have met before;—don’t speak; yours is a face that has been kind to me, and I never forget those faces.

TRIP. Me, madam! I know better what is due to you than to be kind to you.

WOFF. To be sure! it is Mr. Triplet, good Mr. Triplet of Goodman’s-fields Theatre.

TRIP. It is, madam (opening his eyes with astonishment); but we don’t call him Mr., nor even good.

WOFF. Yes; it is Mr. Triplet (shakes both his hands warmly; he timidly drops a tragedy or two). Don’t you remember a little orange girl at Goodman’s Fields you used sometimes to pat on the head and give sixpence to, some seven years ago, Mr. Triplet?

TRIP. Ha! ha! I do remember one, with such a merry laugh and bright eye; and the broadest brogue of the whole sisterhood.

WOFF. Get along with your blarney then, Mr. Triplet, an’ is it the comether ye’d be puttin’ on poor little Peggy?

TRIP. Oh! oh! gracious goodness, oh!

WOFF. Yes; that friendless orange girl was Margaret Woffington! Well, old friend, you see time has treated me well. I hope he has been as kind to you; tell me, Mr. Triplet.

TRIP. (aside). I must put the best face on it with her. Yes, madam, he has blessed me with an excellent wife and three charming children. Mrs. Triplet was Mrs. Chatterton, of Goodman’s Fields—great in the juvenile parts—you remember her?

WOFF. (very drily). Yes, I remember her; where is she acting?

TRIP. Why, the cares of our family—and then her health (sighs). She has not acted these eight months.

WOFF. Ah!—and are you still painting scenes?

TRIP. With the pen, madam, not the brush! as the wags said, I have transferred the distemper from my canvas to my imagination, ha! ha!

WOFF. (aside). This man is acting gaiety. And have your pieces been successful?

TRIP. Eminently so—in the closet; the managers have as yet excluded them from the stage.

WOFF. Ah! now if those things were comedies, I would offer to act in one of them, and then the stage door would fly open at sight of the author.

TRIP. I’ll go home and write a comedy (moves).

WOFF. On second thoughts, perhaps you had better leave the tragedies with me.

TRIP. My dear madam!—and you will read them?

WOFF. Ahem! I will make poor Rich read them.

TRIP. But he has rejected them.

WOFF. That is the first step—reading comes after, when it comes at all.

TRIP. (aside). I must fly home and tell my wife.

WOFF. (aside). In the mean time I can put five guineas into his pocket. Mr. Triplet, do you write congratulatory verses—odes—and that sort of thing?

TRIP. Anything, madam, from an acrostic to an epic.

WOFF. Good, then I have a commission for you; I dine to-day at Mr. Vane’s, in Bloomsbury Square. We shall want some verses. Will you oblige us with a copy?

TRIP. (aside). A guinea in my way, at least. Oh, madam, do but give me a subject.

WOFF. Let’s see—myself, if you can write on such a theme.

TRIP. ’Tis the one I would have chosen out of all the heathen mythology; the praises of Venus and the Graces. I will set about it at once (takes up portrait).

WOFF. (sees picture). But what have you there? not another tragedy?

TRIP. (blushing). A poor thing, madam, a portrait—my own painting, from memory.

WOFF. Oh! oh! I’m a judge of painted faces; let me see it.

TRIP. Nay, madam!

WOFF. I insist! (She takes off the baize.) My own portrait, as I live! and a good likeness too, or my glass flatters me like the rest of them. And this you painted from memory?

TRIP. Yes, madam; I have a free admission to every part of the theatre before the curtain. I have so enjoyed your acting, that I have carried your face home with me every night, forgive my presumption, and tried to fix in the studio the impression of the stage.

WOFF. Do you know your portrait has merit? I will give you a sitting for the last touches.

TRIP. Oh, madam!

WOFF. And bring all the critics—there, no thanks or I’ll stay away. Stay, I must have your address.

TRIP. (returning to her). On the fly leaf of each work, madam, you will find the address of James Triplet, painter, actor, and dramatic author, and Mrs. Woffington’s humble and devoted servant. (Bows ridiculously low, moves away, but returns with an attempt at a jaunty manner.) Madam, you have inspired a son of Thespis with dreams of eloquence; you have tuned to a higher key a poet’s lyre; you have tinged a painter’s existence with brighter colours; and—and—(gazes on her and tries in vain to speak) God in heaven bless you, Mrs. Woffington!

[Exit L. hastily.

WOFF. So! I must look into this!

[Enter Sir Charles Pomander L.]

POM. Ah, Mrs. Woffington, I have just parted with an adorer of yours.

WOFF. I wish I could part with them all.

POM. Nay, this is a most original admirer, Ernest Vane, that pastoral youth who means to win La Woffington by agricultural courtship, who wants to take the star from its firmament, and stick it in a cottage.

WOFF. And what does the man think I am to do without this (imitates applause) from my dear public’s thousand hands.

POM. You are to have that from a single mouth instead (mimics a kiss).

WOFF. Go on, tell me what more he says.

POM. Why, he——

WOFF. No, you are not to invent; I should detect your work in a minute, and you would only spoil this man.

POM. He proposes to be your friend, rather than your lover; to fight for your reputation instead of adding to your éclat.

WOFF. Oh! and is Mr. Vane your friend?

POM. He is!

WOFF. (with significance). Why don’t you tell him my real character, and send him into the country again!

POM. I do; but he snaps his fingers at me and common sense and the world:—there is no getting rid of him, except in one way. I had this morning the honour, madam, of laying certain propositions at your feet.

WOFF. Oh, yes, your letter, Sir Charles (takes it out of her pocket). I ran my eye down it as I came along, let me see—(letter)—“a coach,” “a country house,” “pin-money.” Heigh ho! And I am so tired of houses, and coaches, and pins. Oh, yes, here is something. What is this you offer me, up in this corner?

[They inspect the letter together.]

POM. That,—my “heart!”

WOFF. And you can’t even write it; it looks just like “earth.” There is your letter, Sir Charles.

[Curtseys and returns it; he takes it and bows.]

POM. Favour me with your answer.

WOFF. You have it.

POM. (laughing). Tell me, do you really refuse?

WOFF. (inspecting him). Acting surprise? no, genuine! My good soul, are you so ignorant of the stage and the world, as not to know that I refuse such offers as yours every week of my life? I have refused so many of them, that I assure you I have begun to forget they are insults.

POM. Insults, madam! They are the highest compliment you have left it in our power to pay you.

WOFF. Indeed! Oh, I take your meaning. To be your mistress could be but a temporary disgrace; to be your wife might be a lasting discredit. Now sir, having played your rival’s game——

POM. Ah!

WOFF. And exposed your own hand, do something to recover the reputation of a man of the world. Leave the field before Mr. Vane can enjoy your discomfiture, for here he comes.

POM. I leave you, madam, but remember, my discomfiture is neither your triumph, nor your swain’s.

[Exit L.

WOFF. I do enjoy putting down these irresistibles.

[Enter Vane, L.]

At last! I have been here so long.

VANE. Alone?

WOFF. In company and solitude. What has annoyed you?

VANE. Nothing.

WOFF. Never try to conceal anything from me. I know the map of your face. These fourteen days you have been subject to some adverse influence; and to-day I have discovered whose it is.

VANE. No influence can ever shake yours.

WOFF. Dear friend, for your own sake, not mine; trust your own heart, eyes, and judgment.

VANE. I do. I love you; your face is the shrine of sincerity, truth, and candour. I alone know you: your flatterers do not—your detractors—oh! curse them!

WOFF. You see what men are! Have I done ill to hide the riches of my heart from the heartless, and keep them all for one honest man, who will be my friend, I hope, as well as my lover?

VANE. Ah, that is my ambition.

WOFF. We actresses make good the old proverb, “Many lovers, but few friends.” And oh! it is we who need a friend. Will you be mine?

VANE. I will. Then tell me the way for me, unequal in wit and address to many of your admirers, to win your esteem.

WOFF. I will tell you a sure way; never act in my presence, never try to be very clever or eloquent. Remember! I am the goddess of tricks: I can only love my superior. Be honest and frank as the day, and you will be my superior; and I shall love you, and bless the hour you shone on my artificial life.

VANE. Oh! thanks, thanks, for this, I trust, is in my power!

WOFF. Mind—it is no easy task: to be my friend is to respect me, that I may respect myself the more; to be my friend is to come between me and the temptations of an unprotected life—the recklessness of a vacant heart.

VANE. I will place all that is good about me at your feet. I will sympathize with you when you are sad; I win rejoice when you are gay.

WOFF. Will you scold me when I do wrong?

VANE. Scold you?

WOFF. Nobody scolds me now—a sure sign nobody loves me. Will you scold me?

VANE (tenderly). I will try! and I will be loyal and frank. You will not hate me for a confession I make myself? (agitated.)

WOFF. I shall like you better—oh! so much better.

VANE. Then I will own to you——

WOFF. Oh! do not tell me you have loved others before me; I could not bear to hear it.

VANE. No—no—I never loved till now.

WOFF. Let me hear that only. I am jealous even of the past. Say you never loved but me—never mind whether it is true—say so;—but it is true, for you do not yet know love. Ernest, shall I make you love me, as none of your sex ever loved? with heart, and brain, and breath, and life, and soul?

VANE. Teach me so to love, and I am yours for ever. (Pause) And now you will keep your promise, to make me happy with your presence this morning at the little festival I had arranged with Cibber and some of our friends of the theatre.

WOFF. I shall have so much pleasure; but, àpropos, you must include Snarl and Soaper in your list.

VANE. What! the redoubtable Aristarchuses of the pit?

WOFF. Yes. Oh, you don’t know the consequences of loving an actress. You will have to espouse my quarrels, manage my managers, and invite my critics to dinner.

VANE. They shall be invited, never fear.

WOFF. And I’ve a trust for you; poor Triplet’s three tragedies. If they are as heavy in the hearing as the carrying—— But here comes your rival, poor Pomander (crosses to L.).

[Enter Sir Charles, L.]

You will join our party at Mr. Vane’s, Sir Charles? You promised, you know (crosses to L.).

POM. (coldly). Desolé to forfeit such felicity; but I have business.

VANE (as he passes, crosses to C.). By-the-bye, Pomander, that answer to your letter to Mrs. Woffington?

WOFF. He has received it. N’est ce pas, Sir Charles? You see how radiant it has made him! Ha! ha!

[Exeunt Woffington and Vane L. H.

POM. Laughing devil! If you had wit to read beneath men’s surface, you would know it is no jest to make an enemy of Sir Charles Pomander.

[Enter Hundsdon, R.]

HUNDS. Servant, Sir Charles.

POM. Ah, my yeoman pricker, with news of the mysterious Hebe of my Barnet rencontre. Well, sirrah, you stayed by the coach as I bade you?

HUNDS. Yes, Sir Charles.

POM. And pumped the servants?

HUNDS. Yes, Sir Charles, till they swore they’d pump on me.

POM. My good fellow, contrive to answer my questions without punning, will you?

HUNDS. Yes, Sir Charles.

POM. What did you learn from them? Who is the lady, their mistress?

HUNDS. She is on her way to town to join her husband. They have only been married a twelvemonth; and he has been absent from her half the time.

POM. Good. Her name?

HUNDS. Vane.

POM. Vane!

HUNDS. Wife of Mr. Ernest Vane, a gentleman of good estate, Willoughby Manor, Huntingdonshire.

POM. What!—What!—His wife, by heaven! Oh! here is a rare revenge. Ride back, sirrah, and follow the coach to its destination.

HUNDS. They took master for a highwayman. If they knew him as well as I do, they wouldn’t do the road such an injustice.

[Exit R.

POM. (with energy). I’ll after them; and if I can but manage that Vane shall remain ignorant of her arrival, I may confront Hebe with Thalia; introduce the wife to the mistress under the husband’s roof. Aha! my Arcadian pair, there may be a guest at your banquet you little expect, besides Sir Charles Pomander!

[Exit L.

[SCENE II.]—A spacious and elegant Apartment in the House of Mr. Vane, opening into a Garden formally planted, with Statues, &c. A Table set for a collation, with Fruits, Flowers, Wine, and Plate. A Door C. flat, communicating with Entrance Hall, other Doors R. and L. Settees and high-backed Chairs, a Side Table with Plate, Salvers, &c.

[Colander discovered arranging table.]

COL. So! malmsey, fruit, tea, coffee, yes! all is ready against their leaving the dining-room!

[Enter James Burdock, a salver with letters in his hand.]

BUR. Post letters, Master Colander.

COL. Put ’em on the salver. (Burdock does so.) You may go, honest Burdock—(Burdock fidgets, turning the letters on the salver) when I say you may go—that means you must; the stable is your place when the family is not in Huntingdonshire, and at present the family is in London.

BUR. And I wish it was in Huntingdonshire, with the best part of it, and that’s mistress. Poor thing! A twelvemonth married, and six months of it as good as a widow.

COL. We write to her, James, and receive her replies.

BUR. Aye! but we don’t read ’em, it seems.

COL. We intend to do so at our leisure—meanwhile we make ourselves happy among the wits and the players.

BUR. And she do make others happy among the poor and the suffering.

COL. James Burdock, property has its duties, as well as its rights. Master enjoys the rights in town, and mistress discharges the duties in the country; ’tis the division of labour—and now vanish, honest James, the company will be here directly, and you know master can’t abide the smell of the stable (crosses to L.).

BUR. But, Master Colander, do let him have this letter from missus (holds out the letter he has taken from the salver).

COL. James Burdock, you are incorrigible. Have I not given it to him once already? and didn’t he fling it in my face and call me a puppy? I respect Mistress Vane, James; but I must remember what’s due to myself—I shan’t take it.

[Exit Colander 3 E. L.

BUR. Then I will—there! Poor dear lady! I can’t abear that her letters, with her heart in ’em, I’ll be sworn, should lie unopened. Barnet post mark!—why, how can that be? Well, it’s not my business. (puts salver on table 2 E. L.) Master shall have it though (hurried knocking heard). There goes that door, ah! I thought it wouldn’t be quiet long—what a rake-helly place this London is!

[Exit L.

[Re-enter with Mrs. Vane in a hood and travelling dress.]

BUR. Stop! stop! I don’t think master can see you, young woman.

MABEL. Why, James Burdock, have you forgotten your mistress? (removes her hood)

BUR. Mistress! why Miss Mabel—I ask your pardon, miss,—I mean, madam. Bless your sweet face!—here, John, Thomas!

MABEL. Hush!

BUR. Lord, lord! come at last! oh! how woundy glad I am, to be sure—oh! lord, lord, my old head’s all of a muddle with joy to see your kind face again.

MABEL. (R.) But Ernest—Mr. Vane, James, is he well—and happy—and (sees his change of face)—Eh! he is well, James?

BUR. Yes, yes, quite well, and main happy.

MABEL. And is he very impatient to see me?

BUR. (aside). Lord help her!

MABEL. But mind, James, not a word; he doesn’t expect me till six, and ’tis now scarce four. Oh! I shall startle him so!

BUR. Yes, yes, madam; you’ll startle him woundily.

MABEL. Oh! it will be so delightful to pop out upon him unawares—will it not, James?

BUR. Yes, Miss Mabel,—that is, madam; but hadn’t I better prepare him like?

MABEL. Not for the world. You know, James, when one is wishing for any one very much, the last hour’s waiting is always the most intolerable, so when he is most longing to see me, and counting the minutes to six, I’ll just open the door, and steal behind him, and fling my arms round his neck, and—but I shall be caught if I stay prattling here, and I must brush the dust from my hair, and smooth my dress, or I shall not be fit to be seen; so not a word to anybody, James, I insist, or I shall be angry. Where is my room? (goes to 3 E. R. and opens door) Oh, here!

BUR. Your room, Miss Mabel; no! no! that is Mr. Vane’s room, Ma’am.

MABEL. Well, Mr. Vane’s room is my room, I suppose (pausing at door). He is not there, is he?

BUR. No, Ma’am, he is in the dining-room (knock). Anon! anon!

MABEL. I fear my trunks will not be here in time for me to dress; but Ernest will not mind. He will see my heart in my face, and forgive my travelling sacque.

[Exit into apartment R. 2 E.

BUR. Poor thing! poor thing! (knock) there goes that door again—darn me if I go till I’ve seen Colander. Anon,—Miss Mabel!—(going to door 3 E. R.).

[Hundsdon enters 3 E. L.]

HUNDS. (aside and looking at Burdock). For all the world the twin brother to those bumpkins behind Hebe’s coach. Well, my honest fellow!